


Amorous Congress

by Draycevixen



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What did the horseman mean, Crane?” Abbie stared at me over her glass of rum. “When he called you ‘Washington’s prize soldier?’” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amorous Congress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lukoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lukoni/gifts).



“What did the horseman mean, Crane?” Abbie stared at me over her glass of rum. “When he called you ‘Washington’s prize soldier?’” 

 

I was furious after the unfortunate turn of events at Boston Harbor. I felt the captain’s orders to bring back safely both the crate and my own person had been at the heart of our mission’s failure. 

I determined to see Colonel Washington at my earliest opportunity, to register my anger and frustration with his orders in the strongest terms possible. I am ashamed to say that I was so impassioned that I burst in to his cabin like a common ruffian, without any permission to do so sought or granted. 

Yet rather than lambast me for my lack of propriety, he greeted me warmly, gripping me by my arms and pulling me close.

“My dearest Ichabod, thank God you are yet living.” 

And then he kissed me. 

I could not have been more surprised if the ground had opened suddenly to reveal the kingdom of the little people my nursemaid had told me tales of in my tender years. Indeed, my shock rendered me immobile and he slowly withdrew from me. 

“I thought, perhaps you returned…” Colonel Washington drew himself up to his full height. “I can do nothing but offer my sincerest apologies, Crane, and my heartfelt hope that my impetuous actions will not lose your able assistance in our cause.”

In school, I had become very close to some of the other boys, sharing affection and physical comfort in the face of a harsh environment designed to make men of us before we were truly ready to leave the safe haven of childhood. I had believed that such dalliances were long in my past. 

I now realized I was wrong. Indeed, turning one’s back on one’s country in pursuit of a cause was a lonely state of affairs, ideals no matter how fine could not love one back, and to add insult to injury, the lady who held my heart in the palm of her hand was betrothed to another. Here was the warmth of human affection I had been missing. My respect and regard for this man, and yes I must admit, my desire drove me forward. I kissed him, clasping him to my chest and after only a momentary hesitation, he kissed me back. 

We exchanged fervent kisses and inflaming caresses, hands reaching beneath hastily loosened linens, before his hardened prick pressing against my hip spurred me on to more daring intimacies. I unfastened the buttons on his breeches’ fall as he eagerly pressed forward, and was soon rewarded by the hot length of him in my hand. With one more fleeting kiss I fell to my knees looking up at him, as his hands sunk in to my hair, before swallowing him down. 

What I lacked in skill, having learned little finesse in my schoolboy fumblings, I made up for with enthusiasm, nibbling lightly at his rapidly retracting foreskin, dragging my tongue down the silken length of him, gradually working more of him in to my mouth. And all the while his hands remained gentle, never forcing my actions, tender endearments falling from his lips. Emboldened, I was readying to attempt to take him deeper, in to my throat, when his hand on my shoulder urged me back to my feet. 

Had my ineptitude offended? “I beg pardon if—” 

“Swive me.” 

I must admit I stepped back and stared at him for I had assumed, given his greater station in life and the decade of age he had on me that if any such act transpired between us I would be on the receiving end of it. 

“You look surprised, Ichabod.” 

George, for that was how I now dared think of him, began to push his breeches down further. 

“The English have been swiving us for years. I thought for once I might as well enjoy it.” 

My own prick pressed wantonly against my breeches and yet still I hesitated, damnable pride making me reluctant to admit to my inexperience in swiving men, having not ventured so far in school. George’s hand that had been reaching for my buttons hesitated at my waist.

“If you do not wish this, you need only speak.”

“I wish it very much but I am… untried.” 

I hung my head, raising it only as George reached to cup my cheek. “Then be guided by me.” 

“Always, sir.”

He handed me a small pot of lard, instructing me to soften a little between my fingers as he bent his upper body across the table, face down, presenting his bare arse to me. 

“You must first use your larded fingers to stretch the fundament, to ease the future passage of your prick.”

“I will not hurt you?”

“On my word you will not, if you proceed slowly.”

I slipped one well greased finger easily inside as George pushed back slightly, encouraging me to delve further. 

The velvety heat surrounding my finger inspired such cupidity in my loins that it necessitated unbuttoning my breeches left handed, to avoid doing a permanent mischief to my person.

I added a second finger at George’s request and when, becoming bolder, I pressed downwards towards his prick, he shuddered. 

“That’s the very spot, Ichabod.” His gaze, over his shoulder, was full of fire. “Now see if you can find it again with your prick.”

I did not need to be told twice. I greased my shaft and eased my way inside. Or so was my intention, but George pushed back sharply without warning and I found myself buried to the hilt. 

To be conjoined with my dear friend and mentor in such a fashion was a pleasure beyond all my prior experiences or imaginings. Frankly, only turning my mind temporarily to the declension of Latin nouns saved me from embarrassing myself like an overeager novice. 

I thought to move, but George’s hand on my hip stilled me. 

“Sir?”

“A moment, if you will, twas far more of a gift than I was expecting.” 

The salacious way he regarded me made his meaning clear and salved my erstwhile flagging confidence. 

Careful not to yield to the nigh on overwhelming impulse to thrust in to his warm and welcoming body (I would not hurt him for all the world), I reached to stroke and caress his prick, trusting George to guide me in this as in all things once he had composed himself. 

“Now, Ichabod, _now_.” 

I eased slowly out, before carefully easing my prick back in, almost biting through my lip in my efforts not to yield completely to my baser nature and plunge wildly in to him. 

“No, fuck me, boy. Fuck me ‘til my bones rattle.” 

Whether it was hearing such a word fall from the lips of so great a gentleman, or merely pride demanding I prove I was anything but a boy, I know not. But I followed his instruction with vigor and fortitude, setting the table beneath him in motion, as he spurred me on with a veritable litany of tender sentiment and lascivious filth. 

As concupiscence wound tighter and tighter low in my belly and my prick impossibly hardened yet further, George spilled in to my hand, the spasm in his inner muscles causing my own emissions deep within him. I fear my mind went with them, _La petite mort_ , as the French say. 

 

Afterwards, after George had guided me on newborn foal-like legs to his bed, cleaned me up and fed me, I knew my first good night’s sleep in many a month, held close in his arms. 

 

“Earth to Crane.” Abbie waved her hand in front of my face. “I asked you a question.”

How exactly one would go about discussing swiving with a lady, even in such a permissive age as the one I was currently residing in, was in truth beyond my faculties. 

“Please pardon my distraction, Lieutenant Mills.” I raised my own glass and took a steadying draft. “The horseman spoke, of course, of Washington’s knowledge of coming events and the part that I would play in them.” 

Besides, if nothing else was left to me, my memories and affections were still my own. George might be long dead, God rest his soul, and the fashion of the times turned to widespread scandalous accounts of personal lives, but I would have none of it.


End file.
